


falling down in mid-flight

by beetmu



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Crank Newt (Maze Runner), Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No Dialogue, Not A Fix-It, POV Newt (Maze Runner), POV Thomas (Maze Runner), Suicide, The Death Cure Spoilers, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetmu/pseuds/beetmu
Summary: Newt and Thomas admit their feelings to one another, and nothing changes.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	falling down in mid-flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NachouPala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NachouPala/gifts).



> title taken from jorge luis borge's poem "you learn"  
> based on [this thread](https://twitter.com/nachoupala/status/1363543672848056321?s=20)

There's something between Thomas and Newt.

Maybe there always has been, but it's obvious now that they've spent six months in the Right Arm, six months not in the midst of running from the world or trying to save it. They haven't really stopped doing those two things, the pace has just lessened for the time being. The crazy world has slowed enough for Thomas to enjoy the lingering glances between them, the automatic closeness Newt has with Thomas that puts Newt’s absentminded hand on Thomas' shoulder, his arm, the small of his back.

Thomas wants to kiss him. He wants to bring him under the stars in a world that will allow them security and comfort, and he wants to kiss him.

He knows Newt feels it too. As much as he is often the first to make a move, he is also often—Thomas hesitates to say always, but he is _always_ —the first to break their stares, take back his touches, or shrug from Thomas'. It's either fear or pragmatism. Newt's more likely to remind them that they're still on a mission, even if they're not currently running from grievers or cranks. They're going to save Minho. That’s their priority.

At one point early on, Newt migrated to Thomas' room, his bed. He didn't say why, but Thomas thought it probably had to do with nightmares, or maybe just something comforting he could quietly have while under the great grief of losing friends, over and over again. Or maybe he was just lonely. Either way, Thomas was glad to give him the company, even as he read the conflict in Newt's expression in the dark. His bed wasn't made for two, but he and Newt made it work.

They made sleeping on that little bed together a habit. They slept better with one another than on their own, he suspected. He knew that was the case at least for him, and with Newt curled against him, he woke up calm, at peace, and livid with determination. He wanted to keep this. He wanted to keep them. As little as they had together, he was glad to have it. He enjoyed falling asleep together, and he enjoyed waking up together. It was like a manifestation of his thoughts; the start and end of the day was usually marked by Newt coming to mind, but now he was physically present too. They pushed the barriers of friendship, crept along the line and did their best to cross it without really stepping over. It was incredible. He had barely a morsel, and it was incredible. He wondered if this was the kind of happiness and feeling and life he could have all the time, once they had Minho and a safe place to stay. He could picture it, a vague sunny image of the future, and if he could have that, everything would be okay. For now, before they all reached safety, Thomas was content with cramped spaces and close proximity. Also, he liked seeing the fluffy mess of hair Newt garnered while he slept. That was nice.

They did not talk about these nights, or the subsequent mornings. 

They did talk about the two of them.

Thomas was rebuked. Not rejected, but rebuked. He'd been thinking for a long time on how to broach the subject, long before he ever spoke his by then well-practiced words. More than anything, he just needed to say it. The results or sensibility be damned, he just needed to say it. His speech all died barely a quarter way out his mouth, having hardly gotten to the part where he admits his feelings. Newt shut him up with a confession of his own.

The words rushed and tumbled out of Newt’s mouth in an eager heap, mirroring Thomas' own sentiments. He'd fidgeted his hands, had a firm, lopsided smile on his face, and eyes that were far too sad considering the subject matter.

The problem was that the timing was wrong. They came to that conclusion together, the bad timing that had permeated the then two months they'd spent in the Right Arm; the bad timing that's always rested on them because they've never had the time, not to take a breather, or take a chance. Starting a relationship? Whatever it was between them? Trying to muddle out labels and feelings? It was among the last of things they needed to focus on. It was Minho that was their priority, and this was all that Newt said, and Thomas agreed wholeheartedly.

_We'll figure it out when we get to the Safe Haven._

He just wished it was different. He barely had them, but it was good even as it was: under wraps, covers, barely with a sound, held only in looks and innocent contact. He wasn't sure, but he was fairly certain that this was love. Good and simple love. There was nothing complicated about it; it was mutual, and it would have to wait.

That word Newt used so much with Thomas, the one he said every time the subject of the two of them came up again, was _later_ . Thomas was using that as the operative word. This _later_ fueled him. He'd had plenty of resolve already, he'd just been provided with more.

So Thomas breathes in the salty air, and exhales slowly. Knowing that they have something to make a future out of is enough, and Thomas smiles.

They have time.

* * *

Newt has the Flare.

It isn't bad yet, but its ruin is starting to show on his arm, and while it's not taking control of him, there is a certain buzzing of anger deep under the surface that is slowly becoming familiar. And, he thinks, stronger. 

The night he saw it for the first time, he had been trying to sleep. He'd already been having a hard time falling asleep in the space of the Right Arm. He was discovering that he didn't do well sleeping in new environments, which made sense since most of the new environments he had previously had to sleep in involved the high possibility of death looming just over the horizon. His arm lately had been... Itchy wasn't the right word. Neither was painful. It was just _there,_ in the background aching and crawling for attention without him ever really taking notice. It was more distrait than that. He'd hold his arm (the right one, ironically), or scratch it, and sometimes it would jolt for no reason, or tense without cause. And a few days into carefully, newly constructed safety, and a mess of planning, he finally had the sense to look.

He'd turned his light on sometime after midnight and tugged up his sleeve. The veins in the area ghosted through his skin, but he was pale, that was normal—except he squinted through blurry sight, leaned in and thumbed the skin. It looked like a freckle if he wasn't paying attention. But he was, and it was a barely-raised blemish, bleeding into veins and beginning to eat up space. He'd gone cold. Despite the burn on his arm and the anxious flush to his ears, Newt had gone cold. Mostly, his thought process at the time had been a repetitive, incoherent string of _shit_. It didn't have to be the Flare. It could've been bad light, or tired eyes, he could've been wrong.

He hadn't the mind that night to think about the ramifications, what having the Flare meant, all he'd known was that he was throwing off his covers, turning off his light and creeping out of his room, rushing to Thomas' and creaking open the door. All of this had been done without a single thought. Either that creak had woken him up, or Thomas was still awake, because even though there was no hallway light to speak of, Thomas recognized his silhouette or movements or maybe just knew, and called his name in a question. Newt hadn't said a word (and wouldn't for any of the future nights he would wind up spending with Thomas), no, that first night his inquiry was kneeling by the bed like a prayer. Thomas moved back and let him under the covers with him, and he was Newt's faith.

Newt slept there that night, and did so many nights after. There was always space for him after the first night he spent there.

Newt didn't want to be alone. He wanted to be with Thomas. He slept with impermanence as his guest, and any sliver of beauty or wonder had a sharp hand behind its back, wishing so dearly to wreck the moment to remind him of his limits. What he got now was all he would ever get; there was no returning for him, and everyday was another step to being ripped away from Thomas.

So he spent his nights with him.

Thomas didn't seem to mind it, and he didn't ask questions, just took him by the waist and asked him closer.

Newt and Thomas became more romantically inclined as time passed, until it became less of a distant idea that Newt had fancied since the Glade, and more a tangible reality to keep, sustain, grow. And the blemish turned into a mark which turned into a maze of darkened veins, running up and down his arm. 

But it's nothing to be worried about. There's nothing to do about it, nothing to change, it has no effect on anyone but him. Newt can still control it. When its heat rises in him, he clenches his fist, holding it and keeping it right where it is.

(His hands are beginning to shake uncontrollably at times.)

This _thing_ with Thomas, he can't do it. He can't drag him in just to break his heart worse, and that includes saying yes without any conditions or constraints, as well as lying to say that there's nothing between them. The first is obvious. He's on begged and borrowed time, he's felt like that even before the Flare (turns out he was right), and it's his job to make the most of that. He will. Right now, above all else, they will bring Minho home to them. He can't reasonably say yes to Thomas when they should be focussing on Minho, he can't sensibly agree to a relationship when he knows he can't stay. The second, well.

He couldn't bring himself to lie. He couldn't keep it in either, because he's been bursting with it since the Glade, so dearly in love and alone with it for so long. The chance to say it aloud, and to Thomas, was too much to turn down, a dream he couldn’t bring himself to destroy. And that route, to lie and say no, would only serve a selfish modicum of temporary reprieve that would pain them both, eventually paying off in a horrible hurt that Newt wouldn't be around to relieve.

He's out of time. But he has Thomas, and having Thomas has always made it all better, ever since he's known him.

* * *

When Newt tugs up his sleeve to reveal wiry black veins webbing across his forearm, Thomas understands.

And they don't speak a word about _them_ in that conversation, not specifically, but they talk about Minho, Newt's past, an answer to his limp that Thomas can't say he's glad to know. He gets it, then. It's not just about it not being right in terms of higher priorities and inappropriate timing, it's also about the gross lack of time at all. The realization that Newt meant never, and that he'd been fooling them both into a false concept of later, whites out Thomas' hearing, his vision, for a few solid seconds, and the cold that spikes through him stops his heart.

He's not angry at Newt. He's angry at the impossible world for putting them into impossible and worse situations. But he believes they'll fix this. This hope balloons inside of him; they will find Minho, they will save him, he will be safe and sound, and along the way they'll cure Newt, which will lead the way into the kind of happiness he can feel just touching his fingertips, but too far away to grasp. With everything they've been through, and everything they've yet to say and do, it just seems unreasonable to think that Thomas will really lose him.

He can't believe anything else because he's got this far, is this deep in, and doesn't know what he'll do if he stops believing that there are still good things to come.

* * *

Newt isn't going to make it.

He knows that as much as he knows he loves Thomas. He's, impossibly, found a quiet moment to himself. He's in dim light at a table and it's late, really late. He'll be tired tomorrow but he'll be dead soon. This is more important than sleep.

He begins with, "Dear Thomas," because that's how letters start, and he sits in that for a few precious minutes. There's too much to say and too little paper. He wants to tell him he loves him, but this letter isn't about Newt. It's for Thomas, and he needs to keep that in mind. It’s not about expressing what Newt’s known for what seems like ages, this letter is to serve Thomas, not hurt him further.

Newt has never had to write anything. There's never been any purpose for it and he's never taken the time to practice, so it surprises him how easily his writing flows, because he can't remember learning and doesn't know how he knows he's spelling words right.

He knows Thomas will blame himself, he knows Thomas will second-guess his every move, wonder which part should have been changed, which part would've made Newt survive. The thing is, he was never making it out alive. That was never the point of him. The point of his existence was to crumble and be examined. Anything he's accomplished was by mistake, an error in the system. _Immunes like you and people like me._ People like him died or worse, that was the fate that awaited them and he is no different.

So he reflects. He tells Thomas he's not scared (his hands shaking are a result of the Flare). He knows he'll kill himself before he'll live as a crank, so he reminisces on old friends, and has Thomas know that no matter how this goes down, as long as he's dead before he changes, he'll be a happier man than if he's left alive. He won't die on his own because Thomas would never let him. While he loses himself, he will be watched, and his friends will bear the burden of seeing him go without being able to stop it. The last time they see him, he won’t be himself, and if he thinks about that too much... He won't. He recalls happy memories, paints old pictures, he recalls the first time he laid eyes on the love of his life. He doesn't quite use that wording.

He absolves Thomas of blame; he'd do it all again, he doesn't regret a thing. He wants this letter to be reassuring. He knows that after he's died, he will be the person Thomas will need, or at least want, the most. He obviously won't be able to give him that, but he can give him this scrap of paper. He can't give him anything else. He won't be able to give him much of anything.

His throat is beginning to close on him. He just wants his friends to be happy. Most of all he wishes he could stand witness to their destination, see the Safe Haven for himself, even without getting to be a part of it. He wouldn't mind not being allowed entry, so long as he had the assurance of their prosperity. He won't even get that, only his complete and utter faith in Thomas and their friends that they will get there.

A dying man living on hope. Funny.

He bites his lip, his vision of the words he's written shaking.

It's a morose thing, dying. And this is the second time he's been sure of his own end. This time, he has no choice, and he doesn't want it.

Newt is curving the letters of _you deserve to be happy_ when he realizes. _Oh_. It's a dry sudden consciousness. He's blinking back tears, badly. And it hits him, he shivers with the strike, his life is almost over. These are the last words of his that will ever live. Blandly, for months, he'd known the line of his life would come to a halt. It would be cut off, sliced away, all his possibilities slaughtered. These are his dying words, and he knew that, knew that when he decided he would have to write this letter, but now that he's written it all down, it's different. He's got a headache, and he’s going to die. He's going to leave them. He won't follow Thomas to the end. He might not even get to see Minho one last time, and Newt's getting overwhelmed.

He stares, eyebrows pressed together and jaw tight, at those last words he'd written for Thomas. What does Newt deserve? Is _this_ what he deserves? To escape and survive over and over again, just to lose at the finish line? Thomas deserves to be happy, and Newt just wonders why he can't be there for it. How come he gets the perfect moment of Thomas saying everything he'd ever desired him to, but only with the promise that none of their intertwined dreams will come to fruition? Why isn't he allowed to be happy _with_ Thomas? Why can't he love without consequence, why can't he love without losing, why does he have to die when he most wants to live? Newt is exhausted, and shit, he's crying. He's really, really crying.

He sits back from the paper, not wanting to stain it, and he sucks in a breath that’s violently trembling. He rubs at the burning mess on his face with his hands, and there's a burning mess in his stomach too, twisting. His shaking hands can’t quench the onslaught of tears, he's kneading his face roughly to no avail, and he's _sad_. God, he's fucking sad. He doesn't know why that almost shocks him. He's going to die, and he can't love without heightening the inevitable hurt. He won't raise those stakes.

Newt can remember the last time he cried; stoically, walking ahead of the group on sand dunes under the ignition of the sun. No one could see it, and the tears had barely brimmed over. He hadn't touched them then, he'd just kept walking, battered by the heat. He hasn't cried since; felt a wild uncertain sadness, sure, but you get used to it. Crying is futile, it's not productive, it doesn't do anything, and there's always something to face. There still is.

But Newt is crying like a baby, he can hear his own pathetic whimpers and choked up sobs; his cheeks are probably red with heat and from the pressure of trying to rub away the emotion. He feels stupid. The back of his hands, the palms, his wrists are all wet from trying to hold it all back. He presses his hand over his mouth to stifle himself, breathes hard through his nose, and ducks his head, all these miserable and desolate emotions devastating him sorely and he's tired. He's not the one that will have to survive alone, he's not the one that will survive at all. He's never allowed himself to want much of anything, and now he wants something so much he's sick with it, and that rests right beside the sickness of the Flare. It's cruel that what he has with Thomas has that kind of company. It's cruel that he never gets what he wants; not death, life, or love.

He dries his tear-ridden hands on his shirt, sucks in a shaking, terrorized breath, and thanks Thomas for being his friend.

* * *

_There's something between Thomas and Newt._

They've jumped off a building together, gotten shot at, and dragged themselves through fire. Well, Thomas has dragged Newt, who followed limply behind, feet dragging while Thomas carried his bodyweight.

And now Newt stares back at Thomas with dead eyes and black dripping from his lips. There's no recognition. There's not an ounce of Newt in that expression, and he doesn’t know his name when Thomas says it. It's completely void. 

_The crazy world has slowed enough for Thomas to enjoy the lingering glances between them, the automatic closeness Newt has with Thomas that puts Newt’s absentminded hand on Thomas' shoulder, his arm, the small of his back._

He launches himself at Thomas with an animalistic screech; Thomas pushes him to the ground and Newt tumbles, not caring how hard he hits when he falls, already scrambling to his feet for another attack.

Thomas is terrified, he's shuddering, he only has adrenaline on his side, and they're so close to saving him but Newt runs at him growling while Thomas begs for him to recognize him, and Thomas struggles to keep thinking that they're both getting out of here alive.

_Thomas wants to kiss him. He wants to bring him under the stars in a world that will allow them security and comfort, and he wants to kiss him._

He searches desperately for his friend like he's not right in front of him, but he's _not_. He is spitting and angry and mindless; Thomas just wants him to be okay, but Newt is a long way off from that.

[Distantly, Newt knows there's a cure coming, but all he feels is hissing, violent rage and exploding terror, because this is something he's not and never has been and now his body is not his own and neither is his mind, and he's scared, he's scared of himself and what he will do and who he's become and he wants it all to stop.]

They crash down, and Thomas skids until he gains purchase, coming to his feet. Newt is on his hands and knees, his veins are pulsing black, his breaths are coming rugged. For a moment, he’s _Newt_ again, but it’s nauseating because while it's certainly him, that is not an expression that Thomas has ever seen, not one he’s ever wanted to see and now that he has, he wishes he hadn't. It’s desperate and panicked, _distraught_ , and he looks at Thomas as the solution, in the crudest sense of the term.

Newt's voice is stripped raw. He begs Thomas to kill him.

He can't. Newt's face curls into rage and he tackles him, slams Thomas onto his back.

Newt is barely combatted by Thomas trying to push him off—Newt's towering over him, knees bent on either side of his body. Thomas is trapped under him and not able to do much of anything. Hopelessly, he tries to hold Newt's scrabbling hands, contain them, or gain leverage to get away, but they slip away from him or yank out of his grasp and refuse to stay still or captive; Newt's nails have managed to scrape against Thomas' neck more than once, and Thomas thinks he might be trying to strangle him (whether or not Newt is capable of strategy at this point is unclear, it doesn't seem like it, but the one thing that's obvious is that Newt wants to hurt him). The concrete grits against Thomas’ skin through his shirt. He can't take his eyes off of Newt's face.

_Either way, Thomas was glad to give him the company, even as he read the conflict in Newt's expression in the dark._

Thomas is terrified. He begs Newt to recognize him.

Newt does, and they're both stunned.

There's a moment of clarity. Newt apologizes, he says _sorry,_ and it's all Thomas can do to tell him that it's okay. He's burning up, but his tears are refusing to fall. Newt's touch has become softer again, familiar, and when Thomas grips him, it grounds them both.

The moment of clarity ends when Newt growls, grabs Thomas' gun, and tries to shoot himself.

Thomas' fear fires first, he knocks away the gun, bruising his hand with the force of it, and Newt _screams_ while Thomas gasps, because he knows that picture will haunt him for years. A lot of this will haunt him for years, actually.

_He just wished it was different. He barely had them, but it was good even as it was: under wraps, covers, barely with a sound, held only in looks and innocent contact._

Thomas can't run away, he can't leave him. He would never, it's not even in question. Thomas can only watch, scrabble to his hands, be a little upright, and helplessly _watch_ as Newt drags his knife from the holster on his leg. Newt lashes the knife at him and he falls back, barely registering the pain of hitting the ground hard like that—again—because Newt is already digging his knife into Thomas' chest. It breaches his skin, and Thomas can't bite back the pain. It's piercing, and he knows it hurts, but he can barely feel it. His hands press against Newt's, they're shaking, and Newt's are sweating, freezing, pushing. The knife's descent is steady, he's screaming. He can barely feel it. Thomas kicks him off, punches him, and this is his friend. He loves him and he wants to cry.

_There was nothing complicated about it; it was mutual, and it would have to wait._

Newt slashes the knife in swipes against Thomas. Thomas runs—stumbles—backwards, petrified, horrified, and, unfortunately, in love. Newt catches up to him, grabbing Thomas at the same time that Thomas grabs him and their bodies collide. They grip each other tightly, hands just around the back of each other's necks, straining to hold on.

Realizing that Newt hasn't hurt him is the worst thing. Crushed together as they are, he feels Newt's fist around the handle of the knife, not the blade through his heart. And that hurts more.

Newt is smothered against Thomas' shoulder, and he feels the jagged breaths soften, both from his mouth, and his chest, which slows its hyperventilation. Thomas slips backwards, scared to see it. His hand smooths down Newt's arm, and he confirms what he already knew. He sees the knife first. Plainly, Newt's hand slackens off it. Out of breath and in shock, his eyes raise to Newt's, and it's him. Sickeningly, it's him.

Their hands find each other's wrists, but Newt's refuses to hold him. It touches, graces his skin and rests, but does not hold.

Thomas thinks he sees a smile tug at Newt's lips. He looks calm. He doesn't say a word, doesn't have the breath for it. He falls backwards and Thomas is numb as he eases Newt's way down. He scans Newt's face for life and there isn't any. His face, still pink and marred with black, stares at nothing; just upwards to the stars they can't see from under the smoke. His hair hasn't dried from their jump into water, and it matts against his forehead. Yellow light splashes against his skin. Thomas can barely reconcile this Newt with the one he'd met in the Glade, smiling by the campfire and telling him about the Maze, the one that had entranced him and steadied him, strengthened and lightened his way. How dim Newt is now, and it's like the death of a star; a long time coming, and the world's become a little bit darker.

_Knowing that they have something to make a future out of is enough, and Thomas smiles._

It's a nightmare, staring in disbelief at his best friend's eyes, waiting for them to blink or move or _see him_ , and being let down. Everything is lost. Coldly, he sits up, his hands still thickly gripping Newt's jacket. Newt is gone, and in the light of flames and fumes of smoke, Thomas' eyes drip tears.

Brenda comes a few seconds later, a minute too late, gripping the cure in her hand.

_They have time._


End file.
